


Gestalt

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/F, Office Sex, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: (n.) something that is made of many parts and yet is somehow more than or different from the combination of its parts; a unified wholeIn broad daylight, Deputy and Governor conduct an investigation. Two parts move as one.





	Gestalt

**Author's Note:**

> This one's dedicated to my girl. xx

Her mousy Deputy, now turned to vinegar, is a woman who requires no introduction. These days, Vera Bennett sets her back a bit straighter, her walk a tad leaner, her steel blue eyes an inkling colder. Swiftly, Vera makes her entrance into the Governor’s office. She swears she catches a glimmer of mischief – or pride towards her improved character – embedded within that pitch, vantablack stare. At the very thought, her chest warms.

“Lock the door,” Ferguson unceremoniously commands.

The ritual begins. Dutifully, Vera obeys. Insecurities claw and scrape at her crooked, foolish spine. Her eyes linger on the Governor’s nameplate. It fills her with a hollow yearning, an insatiable craving, that calls itself envy. How it makes her want Miss Ferguson all the more. _God, I’m pathetic._

A pristine journal snaps shut. To the container with a glossy sheen, a golden pen returns. While her head rises past the dual-screens that cater to her omniscience, her lips flatline; she quirks her brow. Engages in a silent preying game.

Twisting her wrist, Vera draws the blinds shut. Only voyeurs pressed against the glass pane can make out the actions to follow. In an archaic fashion, weaving a silent siren’s song, Joan beckons to her disciple, her Judas-to-be.

“Do come here, Miss Bennett. We haven’t all day,” she drawls, all smoke and mirrors and sinister intentions. 

These wires, these strings pull her to Joan, the master of her fate. So she thinks.

Another lamb sets herself up for the slaughter, damn near sweltering under the sweep of a radar gaze. The leather chair slides a fraction away from the polished, immaculate desk. Knees touch before loosely coming apart. She pats her lap. Smooths down the pleated, wool trousers.

Vera plays naivety well, cast in the starring role of Bluebeard’s unfortunate wife, but it’s what attracts Joan to her: this wide-eyed innocence of a woman who still sleeps in her childhood bed. Shyly, she keeps her face downcast, unsure of what to expect.

“Have a seat.”

“Uhmm—"

That cutting look advises her to listen and thus, she does, forced to sit on the Devil’s lap where the inferno threatens to devour her whole. What surprises Vera the most is how soft and pliant Joan feels; comforted by the fact, she relaxes. Sinks just a bit lower.

“Look,” Joan instructs.

Attention requested, her Deputy cants her head. The cuff of her woolen sleeve grazes Vera’s quivering cheek once the Governor gestures towards the CCTV. Uncertain as to what she’s searching for, her gaze flits across each panel, but her attention (unlike her loyalty) remains divided by what occurs next.

Communication between the two women falters and wanes, foreshadowing the deterioration of their working relationship. In this pivotal struggle, her kitten heels lift above the carpeted ground. Temporarily, she levitates though she realizes the illusion is shattered, seated in the warm, comfortable lap of her savior.

Oh, how she has a knack for romanticizing the wicked and divine.

The zip of the Governor’s fly drags down. Such a benign sound sets her ablaze, drives the ache between her svelte legs. The skirt digs into her hips, the bridge of her plain panties pulled aside. Lord and Commander forgives the nylons pooled on the ground, snakes that have shed their skin. Fine baby hairs prick at the nape of her neck in anticipation.

A single finger caresses her chapped lower lip. Brazenly, Vera trails her tongue along that slender digit. Had it been any filthy miscreant, Ferguson would have recoiled at the offense. Instead, she finds herself mesmerized by the way in which Vera takes her in. Enthralled, she holds her breath.

As above, so below, not a soul can see what happens under the desk. Centimeter by centimeter, Joan inches the strap-on into Vera’s willing entrance. With her inner walls stretched so deliciously, she gasps. That hitching, rising, wrinkled skirt requires a decent ironing job come tomorrow.

 _This is more than I can take,_ Vera thinks, but she’s wrong. Woefully so.

This is only slightly different from three of Miss Ferguson’s fingers curled deep inside. Slickness runs down her thighs, over the black silicone cock nestled inside. Her warm, hungry cunt around that thick, black shaft. Hands steel thighs that appear flimsy but are quite strong - sturdy pillars in their own lithe rite/right.

She needs to be told what to do, what to swallow.

“Use your observation skills to their highest potential.”

A shift in position causes the chair to creak, groan, cry which coaxes a reaction from Vera. 

“There. Doyle should have been in the recreation room at that hour. In fact, she’s not even in her proper unit.”

“Very good, Vera. How do we react to this insubordination?”

“Slot her.”

The prized reward is a purposely sluggish _thrust_.

Vera aches to move, to writhe, to get some relief. To the hilt, she sinks, her back to the Governor’s clothed belly. Koschei’s glossy mouth touches her sun-kissed skin. A wagging tongue traces not the heartline, but the jawline. The faint trace of smoke, masked by the dry-cleaning staple, clings to her lapels. Vera notices, because she regards the Governor far too much. Notices her always.

“Should you feel inclined to make a sound, _do_ quiet yourself.”

The Governor procures her forearm as an unholy offering. She emits a small, pitiable squeak. How _disappointing_. An immense quietude is interrupted by a low gasp. That’s better. Immediately, Vera knows that the Governor approves. Fearful of failure, Vera remains committed to the task at hand. Joan’s tutelage has taught her a great deal.

Bracing herself, she reaches back to grip the Governor’s bicep. It’s uncomfortable to do just that, but she’s always been desperate for connection. She yearns to know Joan’s skin under the uniform.

Every action, every struggle, shoots straight to her burning core. The Governor fixates on the corded rope that forms Vera’s neck, taut muscle begs to be stroked and manipulated. She imposes a burden upon those thick, sturdy thighs. She has taught Vera agony, pleasure, and everything that lays in-between.

“Good girl,” Miss Ferguson rumbles, her voice thick and throaty, laced with desire.

Wordlessly, Joan bucks her hips. Sends herself deeper, as if the can feel it, and to an extent – she does, the straps dig into her skin, the end grinding against her in a tantalizing way. Under pressure, she remains composed. There’s a weight to it: the pressure between her legs. The teasing and wanting never stops.

The shudder of her lashes along with the tremble of Vera’s gnawed lips means that she’s close, so near, to the most conceivable perfection. Denied release, she lets out a whimper. She holds her breath. Finds the sensation akin to drowning. It’s a slow, painful art that seizes her lungs and threatens to burst them.

A nip commences. Teeth exfoliate the junction between shoulder and neck, hidden under the starched, white collar and crooked, flailing tie.

“You’ll leave a mark.” 

Her cheeks burn scarlet.

“I intend to be discrete. Only I can see what the brand.”

A stony stillness grips them until Vera breaks the trance. Her reflection projects into the monitor’s sinister glow. Heavy is the head that falls back. Joan carries even more dead weight with a rather uncharacteristic grunt.

“I need... more...”

Needy stuttering disrupts the statement.

“Use your words.”

Frustrated, she shifts and cants her hips. Shivers tickle and trace her spine, goosebumps prick her flesh. Her teeth drag across her plush, albeit chapped lower lip.

“More friction. Right there,” Vera mewls, half-between a moan and a unfulfilled cry.

Ever the sadist, Joan drags this out. Teeth graze the shell of her ear in a tug and a pull at the cartilage. It’s not enough to cause pain, but plenty to inflict feeling. She burrows her face into the crook of her shoulder, committing her perfume - her scent, her very being - to memory. This is the result of a touch starved life. For hours, for days, she could drink her fill.

“Ah, ah. Focus.”

“I **can’t** focus.”

Protests from the meek sound off.

“But you can,” the Governor insists. “Note how your body reacts, _Vee-rah_. Every tremor that racks through, every muscle that twitches, can be utilized for a pleasure gain.”

On top, Vera has some semblance of control. In a few, desperate maneuvers, Vera struggles to hit that sweet spot with the Governor’s firm assistance. She quivers, more precise than an arrow.

“Control yourself, take what you desire and make it yours.”

Encouragement, that steadfast coaxing, sounds like a ballad. Refrained by the confines of her brassiere, eager nipples rub against the smooth, soft fabric. She digs her nails into the woolen barrier, clenching her jaw, gritting her teeth, her eyes cutting past the monitors. Bucking her hips, Vera seeks realize.

“Then, give it to me,” Vera hisses, shoulders hunched, body trembling.

Compliant, God shoots like a star. Bucks her hips high off the throne.

“There?” Joan inquires, suddenly hoarse, her throat tightening to match the mounting tension down below.

She jolts, back arched, the two of their bodies moving for the sake of a sweet, pleasurable release.

“More,” a former mouse begs and the wolf is all too indulgent to oblige, just as desperate for that singing high to accompany the ache between her legs.  
  
Fantasy becomes reality. This isn’t some one-sided, abrupt fuck. Exertion allows for them to be a proper team: to work in unity. Unseen muscles shift and twist, a dance that swears it’s on the verge of revolution. Tempo evens, rhythm matches. Their conversation isn’t foreplay; their synchronization is.

**Author's Note:**

> 'rite/right' within the story is intentional.
> 
> I've been a bit too tired/busy to crank out content, but I'm feeling a bit refreshed now! I hope that you're all well. :)


End file.
